Part 20 (1/2)

She put away the kindly hands, not ungently, but as if she could not quite bear them-as if she was too sore for any human touch.

”How did I come to sleep so long?” she asked, in a strained, weary tone.

”You were so tired, poor dear. The doctor was in, and he said it was the best thing for you. Mrs. Murphy has been in and out, and Mrs. Carr.”

”You took care of the babies?” Her lips quivered, and a few big tears rolled down her cheeks. She could suffer, if the time to sorrow had not yet come.

”Yes, dear. I don't see how you get along so with them. And do you feel better?”

The kind eyes studied her with concern.

”I'm well. I never do get sick.”

”Do you know where your mother is?”

”Not the street. No, ma'am. The people have a queer long name. An'

she'll be late th' night.”

Mrs. Murphy looked in the door.

”Ah, yer up, an' ye do look better. Hev ye had anything to ate? Do ye mind if I have Mrs. Minch come up-stairs just a bit?”

”Oh, no.” Dil did not notice the strain in the eyes, the awesomeness of facing death.

”I cudden't be alone. She's roused, but she's almost gone; fightin' fer life, one may say, at the very end,” she whispered as they went up the stairs.

The babies were amusing themselves. Dil uncovered the face of her dead, and looked long and earnestly, as if she knew there was a great mystery she ought to solve. Ah, how sweet she was! Dil's heart swelled with a sense of triumph. She had always been so proud of Bess's beauty.

But what was _dead?_ It happened any time, and to anybody, to babies mostly, and made you cold and still, useless. Then you were taken away and buried. It was altogether different from going to heaven. What strange power had taken Bess, and kept her from that blessed journey?

Why did the Lord Jesus let any one do it? John Travis couldn't have been so mistaken, and Christiana, and the children.

She was so glad they had put on her best dress, bought with John Travis's money. Ah, if they only had started that day and risked all!

Here was her blue sash and the blue bows for her sleeves. She hardly had the courage to touch the beloved form.

How strangely cold the little hands were. She kissed them, and then she no longer felt afraid. She raised the frail figure, and pa.s.sed the ribbon round the waist. Almost it seemed as if Bess breathed.

She brought the brush and comb, and curled the hair in her own flowing fas.h.i.+on, picking out the pretty bang in rings, kissing the cold cheeks, the sh.e.l.l-like eyelids. Why, surely Bess was only asleep. She must, she would waken, to-morrow morning perhaps. A sudden buoyant hope electrified her. She had her again, and the horrible thought of separation vanished. Dil was too ignorant to formulate any theories, but every pulse stirred within her own body.

Two of the mothers came for babies, but she uttered no word of what had happened. Then she fed the others, and fixed the fire, and Dan peered in fearfully. She gave him a slice of bread, and he was glad to be off.

Up-stairs they had watched the breath go out of the poor body.

”Pore thing! G.o.d rist her sowl wheriver it is,” and Mrs. Murphy crossed herself.

”Has she no friends?”

”Not a wan, I belayve. She used to talk of some nevys whin she first come, that's nigh two years ago. But she'd lost track of them. I'm sure I've taken good care of the pore ould craythur, an' I hope some wan will do the same to me at the last.”

”You're a kindly woman, Mrs. Murphy, and G.o.d grant it. We don't know where nor when the end will come.”